Wonder Made

Five

•••

For a hallway, the school's northern corridor, is considered, by all metrics that measure hallway magnificence, rather impressive.

Not only does it boast the original architecture of the building back when it had been a firehouse, before it was renovated to be the town's high school, but it also possesses un-paralled weather regulating features.

Peneloper always supposed the hallway was a kind of magic, and now with Heavensley's revelation, her theory seems less preposterous. The hallway carries a nice draft in the humid, dry summers, becomes rather insulated against the biting cold of the later months, and student secrets echo off its walls.

Not to mention, it also has a lovely selection of lockers, clean floors, plenty of lighting, and provides a panoramic view of school grounds.

However, the best perk, remains the lack of people.

Very few students traverse its path - students think it's haunted by the ghosts of Potter Oaks first fire fighting patrol, but just because a few trash cans happened to combust does not mean a ghost is the culprit. Correlation is not causation. 

In this hallway happens to be Crispen and Peneloper's next class - Chemistry 101. Outside the lab, looking all tall, dark and effortlessly handsome Crispen Heavensley leans against the wall, emitting a 'zero fucks given' type of attitude I'm told human children often exude.

As he is the current trending topic among the Oaks student body, more people than usual have visited the corridor, hoping to steal a peek. 

He ignores them. The girls peering out behind a row of lockers, the boys, structured like totem poles hidden behind water fountains and trash cans, all of which chirp to each other while flushing profusely. They neither infuriate nor interest him. He is here for Peneloper and Peneloper alone, his gaze rather singular. But given what I know of him, this is unsurprising.

With a scoff, he slips the headphones of his Walkman over his ears and presses play. Phil Collins seeps into his mind, clearing a space among the clutter, so Crispen can calmly reach out, and touch the pulsing white heart of his magic. 

He connects to it, and subsequently, to all things: all times, all places, all that ever was and will be. One might say he's been dialed-in to the universe.

And in that infinite, full place, he conveys a single thought, that reverberates on every thread of magic's tapestry. What a delight - sarcasm again - it's for yours truly. 

 You? Oh god, why is it you?

As an unbiased narrator - to which, Crispen scoffs, conveying disbelief I will easily ignore -  I have been tasked with providing this story in full and without much interference. I must confess, though, Crispen's breaking of all walls, whether first, second, third, or fourth, has my curiosity piqued.

But I resist the urge to answer, instead deciding it best to remain the nebulous, disembodied voice retelling the story from behind my curtained, two-bedroom studio apartment in the Upper East Side. 

Crispen glares at the control I've demonstrated -- why, it certainly is impressive -- and it is something so arresting, it penetrates every layer imaginable, exposing thousands of bodies, deceased, alive, and future-born.

I can ignore him no longer; my gaze meets his.

And why not me, boy of crows?  I respond. Am I not the most fitting to narrate her story?

Crispen shakes his head, curls tumbling in front of his eyes. Two girls huddled at a water fountain nearby burst into tears as their knees explode from under them. Though no gurneys are on standby, rest assured, they'll be rushed to Mr. Cardroy who will ease them down onto empty cots to sleep off the swoon while the overworked nurse quietly curses his lack of cold compresses.